


La Serenissima

by OracleGlass



Category: Angel: the Series
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-21
Updated: 2009-12-21
Packaged: 2017-10-04 23:10:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,981
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/35106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OracleGlass/pseuds/OracleGlass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Darla in Venice, spreading her wings amidst the plague.</p>
            </blockquote>





	La Serenissima

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BookishWench](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=BookishWench).



> Written for tenyearsofBuffy, in response to a prompt by BookishWench.   
> The Prompt: Character: Darla, The Master, OCs  
> Specifications:  
> 1) Timeperiod - pre-Liam  
> 2) a ruby  
> 3) cameo by the Master  
> 4) interaction with a vampire we haven't met previously

The city of Venice was almost entirely devoid of vampires. It was not, as might be concluded, because Venice was an unfriendly home for them; on the whole, it was a very nice location for a small handful to take up residence. While it was not a large city, it had a great deal of bustling waterfront commerce as well as a most convenient lagoon in which bodies could be dumped. And Venetians conducted a great deal of their socialization at night, which made it easy for a smart vampire to avoid any risk of detection by an Inquisitional cleric determined to root out all supernatural evil.

No, Venice was barren of vampires because of the plague that had recently swept through the city like a new broom. It had left one in four people dead, frightened away the tourists, and brought the shipping trade to a grinding halt, but it also had an effect on the undead. Most vampires immediately fled a city overcome by plague. It was as if some dim memory of human frailty still percolated deep in their brains, causing them to hastily abandon a pest zone like vermin off a sinking ship. They sought out better hunting grounds with more sociable delights, a populace of rosy-cheeked victims, and good wine - the farther away, the better.

Marco had somberly kissed Darla on both cheeks before leaving. The little vampire had been her only steady companion after she had left America behind, taking passage to London in order to explore what delights Europe might hold. She had been standing at the railing, staring out into the dark blue void of the ocean and wondering what came next, when he had appeared beside her. Although he denied it, Darla rather suspected that he had been assigned to her by the Master, who had no time to nurture a newly turned vampire through the awkward stumblings he or she was prone to in the first decade of unlife.

"Not that you were ever awkward," Marco had commented wryly. "It has been some time since I have seen someone with your promise. I don't wonder that the Master selected you for his purposes."

"He's said nothing to me about what he wants from me," Darla had said, still sulking. "I haven't seen him since Virginia."

"All things come in the fullness of time. Have patience, and learn from me. Make yourself into a weapon fit for his hand."

Darla remembered smiling fondly at his compliments. Marco had been a rank-and-file soldier in Trajan's army, but nobody could have guessed his humble origins so many centuries later. Besides teaching her how to survive in her new existance, he had also ruthlessly polished her coarse edges until she could effortlessly pass for noble. Marco had also instilled in her a taste for fine living, which she was never to lose. But now he was going, and Darla would not go with him.

"It's not just the plague, cara," he said in reply to Darla's accusation of cowardice. "We've been here six months already, and that's too long for me. My feet get itchy if I stay too long in one city." He tapped her nose playfully. "Besides, you've learned all I have to teach. And I'm tired of listening to humans screaming when I'm not actually eating them. I want a little peace and quiet. I think I'll be off to see how things are in Paris. There is a little place in the Boulevard Carnot that always hires the most delicious serving girls…"

On the whole, Darla found that she rather liked the screaming. Throughout the days of the 1630 plague, she had continued to linger in the city, watching with mild interest as humans dropped and died at her feet. The blood they coughed up made beautiful patterns on the ground, tracing lacy rivulets delicate as the black shawl tossed over her white shoulders. It seemed to her to be rather poetic, in some small, mortal way. She thought it was pretty. And there were a great many orphans left to fend for themselves, which provided her with badly needed entertainment. After all, the opera was closed for the duration of the pest.

But the plague was gone now, and Venice was tottering to her feet. As death left, an almost gala mood replaced it. The Carnivale season this year was a whirl of masques and operas, small parties and immense festas. Venice was grimly determined to be merry, come what may. From the second story of the house Darla had leased, she watched people pass to and fro – tourists, poets, composers, all on their way to something new and delightful. Most of all, she saw, the city was teeming with lovers. Venice was infested with them. They met in alleyways and exchanged scraps of poetry. They slipped off at balls to meet in quiet rooms. Maids and valets hurried about on their errands. They passed each other in the street and gazed at each other with smoldering eyes, silently swearing eternal devotion.

Darla ate quite a few of them that year. Really, she was doing them all a favor. Love never lasted, not for these little mayflies who flung themselves headfirst into passion and then burned out into sad ash. A moth would fly into a candle and burn to death; so too would these couples burn: first with desire, then with hate when love abandoned them. This way, it would never end in banal quarrels and tossed crockery. It pleased her to think of herself as the muse of tragedy, lending beauty and meaning to their otherwise pointless deaths.

She resolutely quashed a traitorous thought that a small part of her was jealous. After all, she and all her kind were above such emotions. But if she was honest with herself - which she very rarely was, as the ability to self-delude was vital to a vampire's well-being - she could admit that she did wish she had someone to share her time, her hunts, the long hours of unlife that hung empty on her hands. But every human she encountered seemed hollow somehow, and she was never tempted to bring one of them over. She would have to teach them, have to take them in hand and guide them along the rocky path that the newly turned had to navigate. The possibility was too great that her choice would turn out to be an absolute bore. She wanted something more than a new pet. And so, she whiled away the time alone - dancing, gaming, taking in an opera…and, of course, stalking prey.

She was dressing that evening to go to a masque. A handsome young nobleman who claimed to be a distant relation of the doge had been throwing himself at her, and she had refrained from eating him because he was pleasing in his rather puppyish devotion. Plus, the purses of gold coins he pressed on her were very useful to maintain a certain level of comfort. One day he would become boring, and she would bring him home with her, drink him down, and have her two devoted gondoliers send the body floating out into the lagoon with some carefully contrived knife wound to the neck. But tonight, she would accept his arm, and would dance with him, and perhaps slip away for just a moment and take a delicious young servitor behind the stairwell as a quick tidbit.

There was a knock at the door, and her maid tiptoed in to help her don her dress. The high lace collar fanned out behind her head, and her black gown fell in deep flounces to cascade elegantly to the floor. Darla pursed her lips and ran her hands down over the rich fabric, enjoying its texture under her fingers. It was interesting, how being dead could cause your social standing to rise. Imagine, a whore from the Virginia colonies finessing her way through the Venetian upper crust. It just went to show that the proper attitude was everything.

Opening her jewelry box, she paused to assess which gems would suit her best tonight – the pearls? No, too understated. She discarded a sapphire collar and a diamond parure with a muttered, "No…not that. Too sedate." Her rubies – yes, they would look perfect with the gown. She put on the earbobs, threading the wire in carefully, then lifted her chin so her maid could place the necklace around her neck. She slid a caressing hand over the cool stones and metal, and smiled. Even without a mirror she knew how well they looked – like drops of crimson blood staining her pale skin. Exactly the effect she wanted. She had known they would suit her when she saw them being worn by a two-penny trollop who had been lucky enough to snare a marvelously wealthy duke. Darla had left the pair of them in his sleeping chamber, cooling slowly among the bloody wreckage of his once-elegant bed. Marco had been most amused by the story.

The maid helped set a black tricorn on her head, and gently lifted the net veil so Darla could put on her mask. She had chosen a bauta, the most traditional and anonymous of the masks. Instead of the usual white, she had selected one painted a rich gold, with the faintest brocade pattern noticable if one was looking carefully. It shimmered dully in the candlelight. The ambiguous, alien contours of the mask pleased her. She adjusted the veil, playing with the light material until it clouded around her face to her satisfaction.

"Signorina", said the maid meekly, "he is waiting below for you."

Darla smiled to herself and rose, shaking her skirts out so they fell gracefully around her feet. The maid, taking that as her cue, fled the room, deepening Darla's amusement. Maybe she should have a little bite before she left…no, it would take her forever to find another girl who could do her hair as well as this one. Besides, delaying added spice. Once she finally fed tonight, it would be especially savory after the long wait.

 

Her young nobleman fussed over her until he had her tucked safely into the gondola, exclaiming over and over about her beauty and how it rivaled the moon and the stars themselves. Darla stopped listening to him after the fifth iteration. The young sprout, Sandro by name, was dressed in blue and cream silk shot through with silver thread. He was also beribboned like a maypole. A bit much, really, but Darla reflected that at least he had lovely calves. They filled out a pair of hose quite nicely. He was young, and strong, and what did his bad taste in clothing matter? After all, her uses for him most frequently involved no clothing whatsoever. Eventually, she would have his ribbons to trim her own dresses.

The gondola pushed soundlessly through the water, following the glimmer of lights marking out the ca' where the ball was being held. Torchlight reflected in the water, and they could hear music trickling out of the windows to echo across the canal. A young woman's voice was lifted in a song from Sacrati's "La Finta Pazza," and after a moment a male voice joined hers. Signora Grimani had, as expected, brought some of her favorite singers to provide entertainment. The two voices, twined in a lament for lost love and the vagaries of fate, drifted over Darla as she entered the house, and for a moment, she was almost wistful. But ingrained practicality reasserted itself, and she shook off the feeling. A whore learned very quickly that cobwebby emotions had no place in the real world, and Darla had always been a quick study. Tonight she was here for the sort of pleasure one could grip in both hands and taste on the tongue, not airy fancies. She smiled kindly at her nobleman, accepted a glass of wine, and promptly abandoned him to seek out her own fun.

Hours later, she was whirling in a dance, cheeks newly flushed from the handsome cook's apprentice she had drunk down. Her mask had been discarded after an unfortunate spatter of blood had marred it, so she had discreetly dropped it out a window. Many of the other dancers were also now unmasked, save those that had assignations planned later and still needed to keep their anonymity. They swirled past her, glittering and elegant. Darla laughed aloud with delight. Such fun, this was all such marvelous fun.

The music ended, and she turned to see where Sandro had gotten to, but a hand on her wrist paused her. She turned angrily to see who had dared touch her, and started in surprise. It was a tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed as a deathly cavalier. The death's head mask he wore was elegantly disturbing, particularly since it didn't hide his very attractive mouth.

"Pardon my rudeness," said the stranger, who did not seem apologetic in the least. "But I saw your loveliness and boldness overtook me. I had to try to meet you, even if you disdained me."

Well. The night had suddenly become far more interesting. Darla bit her lower lip, then smiled up at him - a trick Marco had told her was devastating. Certainly this man seemed to be properly devastated.

"What do you wish of me, sir? You have laid hands upon me in such a manner, so what do you desire?" She used her most dulcet drawl, teasing him delicately. Thus was the game played.

"What else would a man want of a lady of your diverting beauty? I wish your attention, nothing more." His voice was a baritone rumble that shivered down her skin. The shiver deepened as he turned her palm upwards and kissed the center of it. He noticed her reaction and smiled wolfishly

"Only my attention? What a waste that would be, to be sure. I'm sure you can think of more things I could provide you with, should you ask nicely." Her smile became more predatory, and his widened in response. They understood each other perfectly.

After a few more courtly exchanges of overdone flattery, he expertly whisked her away into a quiet anteroom with a conveniently broad sofa. Out of the corner of her eye, Darla caught a glimpse of Sandro, fish-faced in surprise at the sight of his immaculate angel hustling off with another man, but they were out of the ballroom before he could do anything but gape. Under the mask, Darla's new friend proved to be exceptionally handsome in a dark, brooding way that was far more interesting than Sandro's boyish features. And under his clothing, he proved to be well-muscled and capable of some interesting feats of endurance that had Darla clawing his back and urging him on. He responded by catching her wrists in a bruising grip, his dark face looming over hers and his teeth bared in an intoxicatingly savage grin.

They finally fell apart, panting softly. Darla's rubies winked in the candlelight against her bare skin, and her new friend seemed quite taken with the sight of them. He ran the tip of his finger along the center stone, and murmured, "A virtuous woman is prized above rubies…I think you have many virtues, cuore. I'd like to learn them all one by one." He bent again to brush his lips against her shoulder.

"You interest me strangely," said Darla. She put two fingers under his chin and brought his mouth to hers, feeling a wave of possessiveness go through her. She should leave – go back to the party, find Sandro, go home. This man was not a silly little boy. She should, in fact, take his throat, and leave him for the maids to find in the morning. But he was kissing her again, and she was feeling a little dizzy…

"Stay with me, carissima. I can feel you trying to leave. Don't go." His hands were tight around her waist, and even though she could have broken free of his grasp easily, something in the back of her brain reveled in his strength. She knew, with a shocking abruptness, what she wanted to do. She would turn him. He would make a lovely vampire – there was a streak of cruelty buried in him that, given the right stimulus, would blossom into something deranged and marvelous. They would have so much fun together.

She tucked his face against her shoulder and ran a caressing finger down his neck, feeling his pulse beat under her fingertips. Yes, it was the perfect thing. Her face shifted, becoming feline and fanged, and she drew back for the strike.

The crack of the man's neck snapping resonated through the room. Darla hissed like a snake, looking up angrily at the black figure that had pulled her chosen victim away, and which had snapped his neck with contemptuous ease. It was now dropping the body on the floor, an object of no value whatsoever. Darla leaped to her feet, hands outstretched to go for the intruder's throat, but she abruptly faltered. Her hands dropped to her side and she sagged where she stood.

"Your revels are now ended, my dear. I have need of you." The figure, elegantly clad in a black cassock, extended a clawed hand. Of course, he hadn't bothered with a mask – his own features were terrifying enough. He gestured, and Darla bowed her head. She must be obedient. Regretfully bidding farewell to all her jewels and pretty dresses now abandoned at her house, she followed him out into the night. But as she followed him silently, a thought had taken root in her mind. Perhaps she need not be so lonely, after all. Sooner or later, she would find someone else, another man who was suitable. And then...well, then things would be different.


End file.
